


here comes the female soon-to-be spouse

by voltemand



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26311978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voltemand/pseuds/voltemand
Summary: She looks at Jeff like “help me out here,” her lips slightly parted, her fingers fluttering in his general direction, and he makes the mistake of meeting her gaze. If Abed was here, he’d be filming—quiet soundtrack, slow-mo, dim the lights and get out some candles, motherfucker, because teenaged girls on Facebook are going to go crazy over this for eternity.
Relationships: Britta Perry/Jeff Winger
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50





	here comes the female soon-to-be spouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dearzoemurphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearzoemurphy/gifts).



“Jesus _Christ_ , Winger” is the first thing Britta says when she sees him. “How much?”

“For my body? I thought you were against prostitution.”

She rolls her eyes. “For the tux. Duh-doy.”

“Oh, for the _tux_. Uh, how does fifty dollars sound?”

“No way. You look too good,” and she’s blushing (a lovely pink invasion), hah. Jeff 1, Britta 0. “Not like that.”

“Britta,” Jeff says, “we’re getting married. It’s okay to admit your intense, overwhelming, _self-consuming_ attraction to me—ow!” She’s socked him on the arm. “Where did _that_ come from?”

“Women don’t get consumed when they look at men! That’s sexist, asshole.”

“You’re missing the point. I’m saying that our relationship—the beating heart of it, you know, all that romantic shit—is a big deal. Because we’re getting married.” It felt important to repeat that last part, and fine, yeah, he’s getting mushy (just don’t look at Britta for too long, just take little glimpses).

He steals a glance. Britta looks like she’s about to punch him again, and he’s mentally weighing the pros and cons of having a black eye in his wedding photos (James Bond-esque? Ask Abed) when Annie walks in. “You look _great_ ,” she gushes to Britta. She sees Jeff and frowns. “Don’t you know this is bad luck?”

“I’m agnostic,” he starts, and Britta interrupts him with “and I’m an atheist, which means we don’t believe in superstition or bad luck or a higher power, except for possibly Morgan Freeman, which is okay-er because he’s black. I mean African-American. I mean a person of color.” She looks at Jeff like “help me out here,” her lips slightly parted, her fingers fluttering in his general direction, and he makes the mistake of meeting her gaze. If Abed was here, he’d be filming—quiet soundtrack, slow-mo, dim the lights and get out some candles, motherfucker, because teenaged girls on Facebook are going to go crazy over this for eternity.

Why? Because Annie’s right: Britta really is gorgeous. If he was a weirdo romance novel freak he’d say due to the makeup or whatever her hair was tamed and her features were softened, but that’s not even close to correct—she’s still all riotous curls and sharp angles and blue, blue eyes, everything about her beautiful and shining and true. She’s glowing even in the harsh fluorescent lights of the dressing room, a small and lovely star. He’s aware that he’s thinking in clichés, so here’s another: Britta is the realest person he knows. Maybe he can’t explain her specific brightness, the way she glints and glimmers (all that glisters is not gold, Winger, except she totally is, Jesus, look at her). Maybe he doesn’t need to, because he’s somehow got it in the palm of his hand (a spot of warmth, the only thing getting him through some nights, fuck, he’s so whipped).

Annie must have slipped out at some point (God, how long has he been staring at Britta, they’re bad friends; they’re too alike; they are _so_ getting married), but Britta’s still looking at him expectantly, tilting her head up ever so slightly. There’s something in her eye, it seems; she’s blinking like she’s trying to ward away a brilliant light.

“I’m not sure which one you’re supposed to use,” he tells her. And then, because he can, because he couldn’t for the longest time, “I like you. I love you. Your toy gun to my head,” he says, pitching his voice high, “I'd say yes.”

“Real gun to mine,” she begins to retort and then pauses, swallows, the line of her throat beautiful and pale and somehow his, “I would too.”

He breathes a sigh of relief—for a second, he thought he was getting jilted at the (almost) altar, God—and says lightly “So those are our vows, then?” (He’s planned out something funny and sweet and perfect. Jeff used to be a lawyer, give him some credit.)

Britta grins, teeth glaring white (if he stares at them too long he’ll get a sunburn, he’ll fall and never get up, but at least she’ll be with him on the ground; he can’t stop the platitudes but damn it, this is what he wants, this is what he’s wanted for so long, he's going to want her for the rest of his life). “Game fucking _on_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yell with me on Tumblr at [withatalentforsquaddrill](https://withatalentforsquaddrill.tumblr.com) (for general bullshit) or [foresme](https://foresme.tumblr.com) (for fandom bullshit).


End file.
